I Heart...

I am passionate about our language, and I love it in all its many forms. But our language is so precious to us, when people think it has been misused they can get quite defensive about it. My dad was affronted that I had used the phrase “I heart self help books” in my last blog post. I pointed out that I was merely tapping into an increasingly popular contemporary colloquialism; ‘heart’ has been a verb ever since New York made it famous in the 80’s, or was it the 60’s? And one of the things I love about blogging is that I am freed from the shackles of strict grammar and punctuation that I was bound to at University, and when writing for publication. This is MY space, I can afford to be a bit more abstract if I so choose, and as long as I get my point across, and people enjoy reading it, then my mission is accomplished. Besides I think that there is something about using a noun in the place of a verb that makes it seem kind of cuter.

Quite recently I observed a conversation on Facebook about text speak. I personally don’t use text speak whether in texts or anything else, as I think it is tantamount to me greeting my friends with street slang, it makes me feel and sound silly. As much as I heart (ha) my little colloquialisms within my writing, they have to fit the person they are coming from. And street slang just ain’t my bag, baby. And neither is text speak. I admit part of my problem with text speak is that I find it quite difficult to decipher, and pointless now that most phones have predictive text. But my theory on text speak is that any time saved by the person writing it is totally offset by the person reading it, hardly fair. Use proper words when texting me please, as much as I find it fascinating, I simply don’t have time to translate it.

A word on predictive text, who came up with the original dictionary? I am regularly astounded by the words my phone doesn’t recognise and the frankly bizarre ones it does. Today it didn’t recognise ‘bereaved’, but I have noted that it does recognise ‘schizophrenic’. And when writing ‘script’, the first option it suggests is ‘rapist’. You have to ask yourself what kind of person decided to leave out ‘bereaved’ but felt it essential that schizophrenic and rapist be essential additions. Scary.

As a writer, you would think I might be firmly in the ‘don’t mess with my language’ camp, but actually I am the opposite. I love the way language is constantly evolving and that people are always coming up with new ways to communicate in words. The language we choose is a way of expressing our personality, much like the clothes or make up we wear. And my opinion is that as long as something rolls off the tongue when we speak or off the fingers when we type naturally without sounding affected then I’m all for it.

I have many little turns of phrase which others choose not to use. It is part of what makes us different. I don’t use text speak just because I can’t see the point, but I do often shorten words and add an ‘o’ as in ‘defo’ and ‘arvo’.  I know many people find that terribly irritating but what can I say? I’m from the Neighbours generation, and those who don’t like it can rack off, the big galahs. 

Changing the habit of a lifetime

I think I may be about to commit writers fraud. 

I'm writing an article for my course about how to be organised. As a reader this is exactly the kind of article that would prompt me to buy a magazine, as I am hideously disorganised. I feel like I am constantly chasing after the organised bus and never, ever catch it, so always reach my destination late, out of breath, sweaty and exhausted, leaving a trail of mess, half finished jobs and fluttering to-do lists in my wake.

So I have asked a few of my most organised friends to give me their thoughts, as well as a leading UK time management specialist and an organisational consultant.

I was so excited to do this article as I was convinced it might finally drag me out of the depths of disorganisation and into the light of an orderly home and life. I was convinced I would finally learn the secret.

But it’s just not going to happen. Because despite being given some fantastic tips I have finally realised that actually there is no secret. I have read about 10 organisation books and time management books, all spouting off brilliant ideas about how to get organised, and none of it is any different to what my organised friends are telling me. This stuff must work because organised people are telling me that’s what they do, but despite knowing it, I clearly haven’t put any of it into practice. Why on earth not?

I can only come up with two theories, finding it hard to change a habit of a life time or, controversially, some kind of not wanting to. Shock, horror... could I actually like being disorganised? Surely not? When I see my friends who are incredibly organised I can’t help but feel a bit crap, look how much more successful at life they are than me. They are doing all this and their house looks great and their time is well managed. But is there some part of me, very deep down, that’s likes to be a bit dizzy? Surely I’m not so much of a pig that I like living in filth (filth may be a bit strong, honestly my house isn’t that bad but it works for effect here so bare with me)? It’s not that I spend my time doing nothing while everyone else is busily keeping their house tidy, but I can always come up with at least a hundred (usually quite fun) things I would rather do instead of organising my wardrobe and only one reason why I really must do it, right now, and almost always one of the hundred things wins.

Or maybe it’s just hard to change the habit of a lifetime. They say it takes two weeks to create a habit, and maybe this is something I need to bare in mind when I am trying to get my organising on. Just do a little something every day for two weeks before it becomes a habit. But I have tried this. Many, many times. My resolve lasts about a week max before I start to slip back into previous habits. The thing is I like staring into space while I’m waiting for the kettle to boil. If I start dashing around trying to get things done in this little window of organisation opportunity, I would miss out on valuable thinking time. And believe me I am thinking. More organised people might whirl around like spinning tops getting things done while I’m looking all calm and serene and frankly like I’m doing nothing, but on the inside my mind is working like concert pianists fingers, non stop and flying. If I start missing out on that unfettered thinking time I’m worried it may cause some sort of malfunction, steam billowing from the ears, or talking in Russian maybe?

So how am I going to commit writing fraud? Well, I’m going to be writing an article instructing people how to become organised. When I’m not at all sure it’s possible to convert a disorganised person into an organised one. Because I have been reading all these books and articles for years, and it hasn’t changed me has it? I thought writing the article would be easy, that I would be convinced. But this may prove a challenge for me as I have to convince others of something I’m not at all sure I believe in.

I have been organised and managed my time well. I have managed to do it. Many times. But it’s just not sustainable for me. For some reason, something clicks and I go straight back to where I was. Maybe being disorganised and dizzy is so engrained into my psyche that it ain’t never coming out. Maybe I should just accept this is the way I am and embrace it. Stop trying to fix myself.

But I do love a project and what better subject than myself? Now please excuse me while I go and prioritise my to do list. 

It had to be done...

The time has come. The world watches. What will the dress be like? Will she show up on time? Will Harry still be a little bit drunk from the stag night?

I don’t think I’ve ever seen our nation so excited. Even Fairy liquid is bringing out a commemorative bottle. And I ask you what on earth has washing up liquid got to do with the Royal Wedding? Honestly. Everywhere I look a company is cashing in. I saw a poster in a clothes shops window “get your hat for the wedding here!” as if everyone in our town had been given an invite. And I suppose given that BBC coverage started at 8am, three hours before the actual event, we kind of have. We’re all going to be sick to death of it by the end of the day, aren’t we?

And if the frenzy of excitement isn’t enough for us we can add to the thrill by having a little Royal Wedding bet. What colour hat the Queen will wear, what time Kate will arrive, whether or not the carriage will be open top, which song will be the first dance. William Hill were previously offering 50-1 on Kings of Leon Sex is on Fire, now THAT is a first dance I’d like to see. Can you imagine the Queen and Prince Pip tapping their toes to that one? Genius. They are also offering 8-1 on Prince Phillip being caught having a sleep during the service. Who comes up with the odds of that?

I may not be jumping out of my seat with excitement but I admit it, I’m a tad jealous of the people having champagne breakfasts, cream teas, street parties and getting dressed up to watch the occasion on the telly. I would love the opportunity to get my fascinator out. Alas I’m going to be watching it with only half an eye whilst wiping bums and filling the kids up on crap so I can at least semi concentrate on the celebrations. I might have a hot cross bun and a coffee. Champagne breakfast it is not, but I’m actually quite excited about it. It’s been ages since I’ve had a hot cross bun.

It’s Kate I feel sorry for. She must be getting through rather a few pairs of La Perla knickers right now. Can you imagine how terrifying this must be? I’m still not sure I’ll ever have the nerve to be a bride, and it would be a slightly smaller occasion for me. She must love William an awful lot to be willing to go through all this for him.

My friend was saying she would love to have the attention of the world on her wedding day. I would love the designer dress and all the jewels, hell I’d be wearing diamond shoes if that was me, but to have the entire world watching? No thank you. I need a valium to survive being a guest at a wedding, let alone get married myself in front of billions of people. The very thought of it makes me feel rather queasy.

I feel kind of sorry for them really. Imagine being born into that? It’s easy for us to say that all they have to do is snip a couple of ribbons for a living, but we can pretty much do as we please. Poor old Wills was born into a life beyond anything we can imagine. He hasn’t got a choice. Bless him.

After a rather enjoyable dream about William a few years ago I promptly joined the Future Wives of Prince William group on Facebook. I thought I could see myself as a Queen, although more of a Queen Victoria than Catherine, as I was much rounder having just had son number one, and I was going through one of my (increasingly rare) grown up phases. But I now realise I’m more of a Prince Harry girl, not enough of a lady for Wills, I fart too much.

I wonder how much involvement William and Kate have been allowed to have with their wedding plans. They have the high expectations of the world to live up to. No popping off to Vegas and tying the knot in baseball caps and jeans for them.

Yep, I for one feel a bit sorry for them. Can’t be easy being a Royal. But any excuse for a hot cross bun. Cheers, chin chin and all that.

Start The Day On The Right Foot

There’s nothing quite like lack of sleep to put an otherwise happy person into a bad mood. And there’s nothing like another person being in a bad mood to exacerbate the situation. I mean, that’s how wars start.

I like to think I’m a happy go lucky kind of person but I do occasionally start the day in an absolutely foul mood. Usually being woken by screaming kids at 5am is what does it. And now we have two kids, the potential for being prematurely wrenched from an otherwise peaceful slumber has doubled, as has the general tiredness. Watch out world, bad moods a plenty.

When I wake up under a dark cloud everyone around me gets it in the neck. And I realise I’m behaving badly which only makes me even more cross (with myself) and bad behaviour can quickly sink into a full on adult tantrum. And don’t anyone dare mention the word “hormones”, atomic bombs have been detonated for less.

I just hate waking up in a foul mood. And when it happens I know I need to do something quick lest the rest of the day spiral into misery for all in my wake. The only thing I have found that will pull me out (aside from a good purge on a blog post) is exercise. Serious, hardcore, sweat till you puke working out. It’s the only time of day when I am capable of turning my brain off and not thinking. For some people it might be meditation, reading celebrity magazines, gardening or a big glass of wine (not recommended at 7am), but I have discovered the rush of cardio. Believe me I never thought I would turn into an exercise evangelist, it is a very recent development in my life. But in these trying times (2 small children), exercise is fast becoming my saviour. It’s true when they say that exercise is the best medicine for anxiety and depression. It does cure a bad mood quicker than anything else I’ve tried. But the trouble is keeping that buzz when the bad mood threatens to return, someone else being a bad mood can really deplete the endorphin levels.

The man also often wakes in a bad mood. We both have a teenage sense of bedtime in that going to bed before 11pm is giving in to the parental pressure (the parents nowadays being us) and before 10pm is positively childish. Which means that very often we suffer from sleep deprivation, the fact that it’s of our own doing only makes things worse. And if our bad moods collide that’s when things take a nasty turn. Very quickly a simple comment can turn into world war three, not only deepening bad moods but positively engraining them into the fabric of the day like chilli into the skin, making your eyes, mouth and other, more delicate, body parts sting every time you touch them. A morning argument is, for me, the hardest to get over, and a Monday morning argument even more so. Don’t even get me started on a New Year’s Day argument. I can’t help but think of that saying, start as you mean to go on, and then I worry that I’m going to be locked into this bad mood for the rest of the day, month… year.

Part of my problem is I’m not very good in arguments. I mean, give me a laptop and an hour to write an acerbic email, and I’m come back queen, quick witted answers to everything that has been thrown at me fly off my finger tips like vomit from a sick child’s mouth. But in the moment, verbally, when it really counts, I’m rubbish. I know I’m over sensitive, flippant comments cut me in the heart and my mind goes blank. Blank, except from self hating questioning, and usually taking the original comment to the whole next level. One small offhand remark turns into a full on criminal self investigation, usually with me sentencing myself to the rest of the day of self loathing. I am always the first person to say I’m sorry, regardless of who started it or whose fault it is, because even if I am convinced I am right at the beginning, by the end of any argument, my judgement is so skewed that I will ALWAYS blame myself. The other person wanders off, having forgotten the whole thing within minutes and I am left stewing over it for hours on end.

I read somewhere that children need to see their parents arguing and resolving the argument so that they can learn how to argue healthily and not descend into name calling, violence or disrespect. That’s all well and good but I just can’t seem to finish an argument with anything other than crying or self contempt. Not quite the strong role model I am aiming for.

I was told recently I need to grow a pair of balls, proverbially speaking of course. And I think that’s right. I need to grow a pair of balls and get practiced in the art of confrontation. Because honestly, I hate it. My heart starts to race, my palms gets sweaty and I feel sick, it’s not a nice sensation. So I have avoided it at all cost and haven’t actually had that much chance to practice. Others seem to be so much better at it than me. How come, do they have bigger balls than me? Or are they just more argumentative? Discussion and debate are one thing, and I can argue the rights and wrongs of society all day long, but when things get personal I don’t have the necessary tools to fight a fair fight. And it’s really not something you can avoid in life. It’s a necessary evil. We can’t all agree on everything.

So yes I do need to grow a pair of balls, and getting myself to bed at a decent hour would also help. But still, don’t ever, ever mention the word hormones to an angry woman, lest you want to end up like me… ball-less.

My (Not So Secret Anymore) Addicton

I have a slightly geeky obsession. Maybe less of an obsession more of an addicton. It's not train spotting, caravanning or bird watching... I heart self help books. 

As soon as I let slip to anyone I'm reading a self-help book, I can't help but note a sense of eye-rolling and hand to mouth sniggering. Whether that is real or imagined I don't know. Because as much as I love my self-help books, they kind of make me feel a bit dirty, as if I'm buying into something that is potentially a con. Admittedly there's something a bit sleazy and cultish sounding about the term "self-help book". They have a greed focussed, money hungry, and frankly, slightly weird reputation. Self-help also hints at a kind of control freakery which most people would rather not be attributed to? And because of this, I’m often a bit embarrassed about people seeing my bookshelf. 

The thing is, there are many self-help books out there masquerading as something else, any book that teaches how to do something could be described a self-help book; anything that gives guidance on life. It could be suggested that even the Bible is a kind of self-help book. (Please note, I am not being flippant about the Bible here, I am merely stating that the end result is arguably the same). But self-help is just another term for self-improvement. And I will admit (slightly pinkish cheeks aside) that I just want to be the best person I can be.

Ever since I can remember I have loved self-help books. My first ever self-help book purchase was aged 13, titled (slightly mortifyingly) "For Weddings A Funeral and When You Can't Flush the Loo". The title only highlights that my social paranoia is rooted in my childhood, and my desire to appear confident and calm in every situation was discovered early. I have always wanted to learn as much as possible about life. We are all born with zero knowledge and yes, we pick up bits along the way from friends, parents, teachers. But no one person could possibly know everything about everything. Maybe some people are lucky enough to learn through the course of their life how to be the best person they can be, but I don't think I was there on the day they were teaching panic attack prevention and cure, how to stop your home turning into a pig sty, parenting a difficult 2 year old or hot lover GCSE at school. And frankly I’m just far too impatient to wait for “life” to teach me. I want results NOW. And maybe these books aren't teaching me anything I don't know already, maybe time management books should say the best way to get more done is to stop reading a bloody book and get on and do stuff, ditto house cleaning. But I genuinely enjoy reading this stuff... however odd that makes me.

I have an embarrassingly huge library of self-help books, including an entire shelf on parenting. Honestly, looking at some of my books you'd think I would have the best behaved kids in the world. You could also be forgiven for thinking I am the best organiser, housewife, lover, stylist and an expert in any other of the huge number of subjects I love to read up on. And I'm constantly finding new things I can learn about and a new craze I can latch onto. I discover a sudden and deep seated fear that I'm merely mediocre at something and want to be better at it, and instantly I'm on Amazon looking for a book to transform me. I'm won over by the synopsis that promises life changing results and it's in my shopping cart before you can say Tony Robbins. But I don't know why I'm so ashamed of it, I just want to improve myself; none of us were born perfect (except maybe Jennifer Aniston but I think she's the exception not the rule).

Take parenting, there are so many different approaches, many of them totally conflicting. You've got your Gina Ford who some might describe as overly harsh, although her methods are used the world over to get babies into routines and sleeping well, then the other end of the scale there is Attachment Parenting which is about holding your kids as much as possible, sharing your bed with them and letting them be a baby as long as possible. And about a billion different approaches in between. And I've tried them all. Not necessarily because I think I'm a bad parent (although that particular belief has fuelled valuable and enjoyable self-help book shopping sprees), but because I love to learn. And for me learning is one of the most exciting things we can do and access to knowledge is one of the greatest un-sung privileges in life.

I think the reason that I'm a tad embarrassed about this is that I have another problem. Just because I love these books doesn't mean that I have actually put any of the ideas into practice. Because despite my obsession with self-improvement, I admit I also have a terribly short attention span. I usually get no more than a few chapters in before I feel like I'm "cured" or can now declare myself an expert and excitedly move onto the next project.

The man often teases me about my self-help book obsession, and ability to move from one to the next without finishing any of them. But I do believe that knowledge really is power, and even if I learn just one thing, one tip, that helps me get through the day with more decorum, be a better parent, organise my time and my stuff - and looking sexier and more stylish whilst doing so, it's been a worthwhile exercise. I just need a self help book to teach me how to finish self help books.

OK it's not very cool and does nothing for my street cred. But it's time for me to admit to my dependence. I am a self-help book addict. If there’s something that can be taught I want to learn. And if that makes me a geek then I'll take that. And the best thing is I know all the tricks to be a stylish, house-proud, sexy and capable geek, or at least I will do once I finish reading the book.

What Women Want

So the man has been spending every waking moment trying to create a beautiful garden for our family, and I can’t help but complain I never see him. But if he wasn’t doing it, I would probably complain that it wasn’t getting done.

I sometimes feel a bit sorry for men. Years of women’s liberation has created a confusing situation. Treat us mean, keep us keen, but be a bastard and you’re out of here. We want to feel like we’re paying our own way, but if you don’t offer to pay we think you’re not a gentleman. We want chocolates but we’re constantly on a diet so we can’t eat them, but if you were to buy us apples we would ask if you were trying to say we’re fat. And the biggie “Am I fat?” Right answer is no, but if we know you’re lying it begs the question, what else are you lying about? And if you do answer no, we’ll give you a million reasons why that’s not true, poking and prodding at areas of skin that barely see the light of day usually, until eventually the poor man has to respond that yes, in that area you might be a bit wobbly. WHAT? You’re telling me I’m FAT?

Poor old men, they can’t win really. Us girls often bemoan our unromantic partner, but standard response to spontaneous flower or chocolate giving is “what have you done?“ or “what do you want?“ or "couldn't you have been a bit more imaginative?". And the rules concerning what type of flowers or chocolates are appropriate seem to get more complicated as the years go on. The man once bought me a huge bouquet of yellow roses, fearing that I would complain that red roses were unoriginal (I probably would have). But my reaction was “Yellow roses? They mean friendship, not love!“ Garage flowers say they haven’t made the effort, but if they went to a florist and spent a lot of money we would complain that they spent too much.

Every gift giving occasion the man asks me “What do you want?” I get so cross, because surely he should know what I want by now (and besides asking me 2 weeks before Christmas just reminds me that he’s only just thinking about it and hasn’t spent the last 6 months coming up with the perfect gift, as I have done for him). So off he goes to get me something, and in my mind I do know what I want, and I hope and I pray that he will get it. Then if he doesn’t, I’m disappointed. He should know what I want by now! So why didn’t I just tell him what I want? Because I want him to know already, I want to know that he knows me that well, and knows what I want. And I want a surprise. But you can’t have a surprise if you know what you want. That’s true, but I still want a surprise.

I was talking to a couple friend the other night and it’s her birthday coming up. Her hubby admitted that he is buying her lots of gifts so hopefully one of them would be right. Suddenly it dawned on me that lots of men seem to do that, and I thought it was a generosity thing. No, they are understandably hedging their bets.

I often bemoan that the man isn’t romantic. He never surprises me with gifts and after 12 years, big romantic gestures are a little thin on the ground.  But I can’t help but wonder if I’ve maybe beaten him down just a little over the years. He says I have a load of complicated rules about what I want and what I don’t want, a fact which I have always denied, and he always tries to stick to them. It’s so simple, just get me something lovely, or do something lovely. When I asked the man at Valentines for something romantic you could see the strain in his face. He looked instantly stressed and harassed at the thought of having to define “romance” in a gift, without breaking my self imposed rules of not too obvious, but not so unobvious that it loses its point, not too big, not too small, nothing that might make me fat but something that I consider a treat, don’t spend any money but don’t be tight, a surprise but something I really want… when I see it like that I can understand why he finds it so hard. Even I can admit myself, the rules are somewhat contradictory. I often complain how difficult men are to buy gifts for but actually, give them an Xbox game and a box of Cadburys Heroes and they’re happy, not so easy to shop for us girls.

And it’s not just gifts. Men have to do the right thing too. How long should you wait before you call after a date? The next day might seem to desperate but leave it any longer and you’re ignoring us. And what’s a good date anyway? Dinner and a film is a standard option, although could be construed as unoriginal and boring, but take us paintballing and we’ll complain about messing our hair up.

I once went out with a guy who gave me a gift every day the first week we were together, and wrote me lots of slushy love poems. I can now look back and appreciate how lovely the gesture was, but at the time I remember saying to my girlfriends that it was getting a bit much and maybe I should ditch him.

I am the first to admit that I am high maintenance, although I prefer to say I have high standards. I do complain of a lack of romance in my life, but the man maintaining me all these years, and trying to stick to my complicated list of prerogatives, well that's pretty romantic in itself.

What do women want? It’s a question that has been asked since time began, and my response? We don’t even know ourselves, and if we did know, we wouldn’t tell men because we feel you really should know by now.

My Goldfish Theory of Time Management

We all have the same number of hours in a day. The same number of minutes, the same number of seconds. So why is it that some people manage to do so much with those hours and others very little?

"I don't have enough time." "I'm too busy." I have said these things so many times. As a stay a home mum I always feel that I never have enough time. I don't have a very tidy house (and if I'm honest, it's not very clean either), I don't iron anything yet somehow I always feel that I am rushed off my feet and never have enough time to do anything.

My dad once asked me "but what do you DO all day?" I was so affronted by this. I felt he was insinuating that I spent all day watching Jeremy Kyle, while feeding my kids turkey twizzlers in their pyjamas. As anyone who has stayed at home looking after kids for very long knows, it's a busy job. Shitty nappies, trying not to get buried under a deluge of toys and mess, more shitty nappies, dealing with rowing children, dealing with accident prone children, trying to keep them fed and watered and semi clean, trying to keep yourself fed and watered and semi clean, not to mention doctors appointments, sickness and keeping up to date with their social calendar... it's pretty much non stop. There's a reason why you have to pay someone a full time wage to look after your kids full time. It would have been more apt to ask me that question after graduating university, when I spent endless months, literally, doing nothing. What did I do all day then? I've got no idea. Watching a lot of Jeremy Kyle probably.

So how come, when I have spent years using the "too busy" excuse for not writing, I have found an hour or two a day, to do it? Maybe some of my other jobs are suffering. The house gets more messy but I usually find time to tidy it up at the end of the day, and if I don't it's not a problem. And I no longer spend two hours a day cooking a meal for children who then refuse to eat it and demand pizza and chicken nuggets, at least 3 times a week they get their pizza and chicken nuggets, saving me 6 hours a week of futile cooking.

I've got a friend who wakes at ridiculous o'clock in the morning, gets herself and her little boy ready for the day (by herself) then works a full time (very stressful) job, picks up her son from nursery, spends at least an hour of quality time with him (I'm with my kids all day and I am embarrassed to say they probably don't get that much quality time from me), before working all evening, sometimes until midnight, before bed and waking up at 6am to do it all again the next day. And her house is spotless. Spotless, I tell you. And she still finds time to have a laugh with her mates, read, watch telly, iron. She has the same number of hours as me, yet she does everything that I do and so much more! How on earth does she do it?

I have a theory. There is a common belief (apparently not true but it works as a metaphor here so bare with me) that goldfish only grow to the size of their tank. I think the same is true of time. If you have lots of time on your hands, maybe cleaning the bathroom might take an hour or two, if you have very little, frankly you can do it in less than fifteen minutes. My bathroom may not be as spotless now that I spend only fifteen minutes on it, but you wouldn't notice the difference, and having a tidy bathroom really isn't that important to me.

I love organisation and time management. You give me a way to find an extra hour in the day and I'll try it. But it's like stroking a cat the wrong way for me because it's does not come naturally. My messy house, and childhood messy bedroom, is an outward manifestation of a messy brain. But being organised gives me more time. If I don't do a weekly meal plan for instance, I end up in the supermarket every day buying all kinds of things we don't need, and if I don't get my work out in before taking my son to preschool, I won't fit it in later in the day.

The man works 6 days a week, and long hours at that. Yet in the last 2 weeks he has found time to build me 5 raised beds for my veggies, taken down and re-sited our garden shed, build 5 concrete steps and gravel our driveway. I've hardly seen him, but this is all stuff he has wanted to do, not just to save us money (which I am eternally grateful for of course, thanks babe) but also because he enjoys doing it. We make time for the things that are important to us, and if we don’t make the time, maybe it wasn’t that important to us in the first place.

We all have the same number of hours in a day. I am busy. I don’t have enough time. But with a little organisation, and focussing on what's important to me, I'm finding some space in my tank I didn't know I had.

All Grown Up?

What does being a grown up actually mean and how do you know you’ve arrived? Does it happen when you have your first child, get married, get a house? Well two out of three for me, and I still don’t think I'm there yet.

There is this kind of no mans land between adolescence and grownup-dom where you can get away with stuff because you are considered too young to know any better, even though you are legally an adult who can drink as much as you like without having to surreptitiously ask some questionable bloke to buy it, get into clubs without having to look a certain way in the queue (knowing you won’t have to use that dodgy fake ID made with the college laminator is a relief beyond measure) and has the power to vote. All with varying degrees of importance (voting is obviously at the top of MY list). But even being able to do these things does not qualify you as a grown up, for that you have to actually be, grown up. 

I still feel a bit wrong sitting at the grown ups table at family gatherings and parties. Why aren’t I sitting over there with the kids eating chicken nuggets, and hang on a minute, where’s MY goody bag?

I really don’t think I’m qualified to be a grown up yet. I still have absolutely zero ability to drink responsibly, and often insist on staying up half the night, although now without the luxury of sleeping as late as I want in the morning, and frankly I no longer look fresh faced and camera ready after a bottle of wine and 2 hours sleep. I keep looking in the mirror and thinking “Oh look it’s my mum. Oh fuck, no that’s ME!”

I confess to freaking out after filling out my eldest sons infant school application recently. I had one of my fake grown up moments, look at me, being the responsible parent, getting this in early. What, that’s it? Don’t I need to get my mum to sign this or something? It took all my willpower not to actually ring my mum and get her to check it for me.

I do have moments of maturity. There are some things that make me feel fully initiated into grown up land, like driving someone else's car (knowing I’m covered by my own, fully comprehensive with full no claims discount, insurance), writing cheques, being called madam and staying up past 11 o’clock on a school night. I love that, I feel like a 5 year old wearing make up for the first time (look at my sparkly toenails, aren’t they sophisticated?) But there are other situations in which I just want to scream "Don't blame me, I’m only young, I don't know anything!" But I am worried I am fast approaching the age where I just have to stand up and be a man. Or a woman. OK ha ha, can’t make my mind up, very mature.

You always hear elderly people saying “Ooh, I still feel 21 inside!” and I never really knew what they were on about. But I now realise this is not a symptom of senility (I hope not anyway) but a simple fact of life. Maybe none of us ever get past feeling 21. 

I think there should be a recognised level between legal adult age and fully fledged grown up. A kind of P-plate of the adult world if you will. Where we have all the rights and responsibilities of an adult but we’re still allowed to fuck up occasionally and get away with it. Then we should be tested on our knowledge of gardening, clock up a certain number of hours watching Midsommer Murder and show evidence of more than 20 percent grey hair coverage before we’re launched back into the world as a real grown up.

They say that 30 is the new 20 and 40 is the new 30, so technically that means I’m still in my early 20’s and therefore understandably immature and can be excused for irresponsible behaviour. And I have a full ten years at least before I have to start liking Midsommer Murder.

Good Teacher, Bad Teacher

Whatever goes on in our lives we are all a product of our education just as much as our parental upbringing, if not more so. When I heard that teachers from a school in Lancashire are striking due to allegations of violence and misbehaviour from kids, it begs the question: should we blame loud and raucous kids or just simply bad teaching?

If Jamie Oliver is to be believed it's the teaching. His Dream School series on Channel 4 is setting out to prove that with the right teachers, even the most difficult kids can become perfect students. On last weeks episode Professor Robert Winston (a famous infertility doctor) asked one of the students masturbate in a petri dish so they could all have a look at his sperm under the microscope. The kids were enthralled by this (not at the masturbating, this took place in a private room but still, THAT could have livened up Science classes). To me this proved that getting kids interested is less to do with subject, and a teachers passion for a subject, it's about how it is taught. 

Teachers get a bad rap from everyone. They have one of the most important jobs in our society and because of their position they get blamed for how our kids turn out. But I think it's a common misconception that anyone can be a teacher, that simply by taking your teacher training you become a good teacher. There was a saying a while ago "those who can't, teach" which has been rehashed by the Education department as "those who can, teach". Either way, there's a totally false belief that if you are good at something, you can teach it. To me, teaching is an entirely different skill all on its own. Some of the teachers on Dream School have been shockingly bad, totally unable to get any kind of control or interest out of the kids, proving that you can be brilliant and highly intelligent and really care about a subject, but that doesn't mean you can teach it well or appeal to a large number of students.

I remember very strict teachers at school who had the quietest most well behaved classes but they were still bloody boring. They were the old school style teachers who ruled by fear. We kept our mouths shut lest we got a black board rubber chucked at our heads but were we really engaged in the subjects or simply listening with half an ear while thinking about pooling all our dinner money to buy ten B&H at lunch break? I fear it was the latter.

The best teachers were the ones who were a bit batty. An old English teacher Mr K (god rest his soul) was a case in point. He would get the class going with just a clap of his hands. Precariously balanced on the back of the chair with his feet on the seat, looking like he could topple over at any minute (and occasionally he did, before jumping up grinning, much to the delight of the class), he wasn't only passionate about his subject, he was passionate about teaching. He wasn't young or cool, you knew not to misbehave because he was strict but kids always looked forward to his classes. He was a brilliant teacher.

Maybe fifty odd years ago, kids sat silently in class and obediently did as they were told. School wasn't fun, get over it. But something has changed. It's becoming clearer that kids these days just don't fit into the same boxes as each other, it is not a case of one size fits all. No longer can we expect kids to want to sit and listen when they have so much more seemingly exciting things to do with their time. Computer games, the internet, mobile phones, telly... maybe previous generations were so bored shitless that sitting around listening to some old dude drone on about Pythagoras seemed more interesting than any available alternative? Or maybe it was simply the fear of the cane that kept kids in check.

Let me make myself clear, I am not blaming bad behaviour on bad teaching. Everyone is responsible for their own behaviour, children included. My opinion is simply that if kids were being properly motivated in class maybe they wouldn't have time to misbehave because they'd be too busy learning. And I am not blaming teachers, I am blaming those who trained the teachers, those who set the curriculum and those who employ teachers who don't have the passion or skills to excite the kids. I have to agree with old clever clogs Oliver here, I know he's being crucified for his Dream School (which admittedly may not be going brilliantly) but he's got a point. We need to do something to make kids interested again. And as he has proven, just because someone is clever, famous or even brilliant at what they do, if they can't engage a class and fire imaginations, kids won't listen.

Teaching is one of the hardest career paths to take, with it comes huge responsibility, stress and longer hours than anyone gives teachers credit for. Maybe some of these teachers once were exciting, brilliant and engaging, but bad behaviour, having to cope with an ever changing curriculum and rapidly evolving society has made them lose their passion. You can't blame them.

Admittedly maybe any teacher is better than no teacher. We don't have enough good teachers, we don't have enough good doctors, we don't have enough good anything in this country. But unless we start getting education right we never WILL have enough. I firmly believe that there are plenty brilliant and exciting kids out there to fulfil our future needs for great teachers, doctors and so forth, but one look at Dream School and the fact that we have teachers unable to do their job because of bad behaviour should surely be a wake up call to curriculum makers and school boards everywhere.

Sore Loser? Moi?

The BBC News website this morning reports that, according to a recent survey of 8-16 year olds and their parents, we are a nation of sore losers. What constitutes a good loser? Is it simply a case of hiding your disappointment?

Like most people, I think, I would like to consider myself humble in victory and gracious in defeat, but I know the man would beg to differ.

A few weeks ago he suggested a games night; the Wii or board games? My ears pricked up at the suggestion of board games, how about Monopoly? He was surprised. I have always refused to play Monopoly with him because it has a tendency to bring out a fierce aggression in me, rarely seen when sober. However, given that we had never played it together in our whole 12 year history, it seemed safe to give it a go. Boy, was I wrong.

The very second he rolled the dice and bought the first property he landed on, a station, I could feel my skin crawling with tension and gritted my teeth while he cheerfully explained he never usually bothers with the stations. Fast forward 1 hour and he has more money than he can spend. I have very little money in the bank and despite owning Park Lane and Mayfair, with houses on both, when I land on one of his greens with a hotel I say "That's it, you win." 

"But you haven't even counted your money, or you could sell some stuff?" He says kindly. 

"Nope it wouldn't be worth it, I'd still lose. Anyway, for the last half an hour I've just been waiting for a point when I could say you have won and you have now, OK? That was so boring, I don't know why we even bothered playing it in the first place. You can tidy it up. I'm putting the telly on." With a barely audible harumph, I put my feet up and proceed to ignore him for the next 15 minutes. Yep, I'm definitely a sore loser when it comes to Monopoly.

Last year at my son's preschool sports day I was talking to some of the other mums and was surprised to learn that often sports days now consist of uncompetitive games, standing around throwing balls to one another, giving the children a chance to do sport without having winners and losers. This all seems so tame, and frankly a bit soft. As much as I hated sports a child, I like to think it was character building. Quite what character it built I don't know, but it's one of those sayings us parents like to use along the same vein as "you kids have it so easy these days" and "you don't know you are born Mister", all of which can be roughly translated as: I had to do it, so why shouldn't you?

As a total under achiever in the PE department, the sports days of my youth were bone chillingly terrifying. There was nothing more humiliating on this earth than gullumping over the finish line last, bright red and sweating buckets, only to find the rest of the competitors were already chatting to their friends and checking their make up, barely a hint of sweat at their brow. Swimming galas were just as bad. I was in my local swimming club which gave me a perceived degree of proficiency (which I was most definitely not worthy of), and therefore was often asked to participate in the back stroke race. No one ever wants to do the back stroke race, because the same thing happens to everyone (OK maybe just me, but humour me here, I would like to come out of this blog post with a teeny bit of dignity). The whistle blows and you start furiously wind-milling your arms and kicking your legs imagining the crowd excitedly cheering your name and picturing the glory of reaching the other side first, only to find yourself 3 minutes later having gone diagonally across the pool, bashed your head on the tiled side, no where near the finish line, with everyone pointing and laughing at you. Getting out of the pool to find your swimming costume has gone completely see through in front of the whole school does not help the situation.

Maybe these experiences of my childhood have made me less competitive, I have a kind of "Well I'll do it but just so everyone knows, I'm going to lose" attitude to most games. Because lets face it, there's nothing worse than really trying to win something only to lose. 

The man is highly competitive, though he will dispute that until he's blue in the face. The smug satisfaction on his face of being pretty good at most things is enough to drive me to distraction, and has contributed to more than a few arguments. I don't consider myself a sore loser, but in the face of a self-satisfied winner I have a tendency to get a well-timed headache or attack of PMS.

Maybe it's not a case of us being sore losers. Maybe it's that we are becoming more arrogant winners. Competitiveness can lead to great ambition which I am all for, but repeatedly winning can make people conceited. So maybe the focus should be on making us more gracious winners. My son has a current obsession with being the winner. Whether it's finishing his dinner first, or being the first one out of the door (usually pushing me and his little brother out of the way to get there) he can't wait to cry out triumphantly "I won! I'm the winner! Ha, ha, you LOST!" I have tried to encourage him to be less competitive and stop seeing life as a constant race or competition but as yet, I am failing. Maybe it's a boy thing. But I do get drawn into the competition just by his very smugness, I have found myself responding by saying things like "Yeah but you cheated" and "Look, its not a race OK?" Maybe a better mum would allow him his glory.

One look at any parents race at any sports day, at any school anywhere in the world, and you can see the people who are there for the win. Some of them even wear special trainers and tracky b's to give them the edge over us less prepared mums who have arrived in flip flops and jeans. The whistle blows and it's elbows out, trying to get a head start. My first ever parents race I came second to last, but I wasn't even trying to win so that's OK, alright?

I don't want to be a sore loser, but I would much less like to be an arrogant winner. I find the best way to avoid being a sore loser is to not compete in the first place (a tactic which I have grown accustomed to using), which is surely defeating the whole point? If you care about winning something you're going to be upset if you lose. And if you win, you have every right to be happy about it. Maybe pointing at someone and saying "Ha ha, loser" is taking a bit far but where is the line between healthy competition and smugness? And for those of us used to losing at pretty much everything from a young age, it makes no difference whether the winner is gracious, frankly they're all arrogant gits. But bravo to them. Really. The smug, self-satisfied, arrogant, conceited...